Please Don't Make Me Go Read online

  We went over Jacob’s Ladder and I could see the Uxbridge Road in front of us. It suddenly occurred to me that we could get to Paddington by bus. I had never been by bus to my uncle’s and I wondered which way Paddington was. Just before the Uxbridge Road, my father led me down a side street and up some wide flagstone steps to a large red-bricked building. Above the door was a printed sign: ‘Ealing Juvenile Court.’

  I stared at the sign. My heart started to race with fear. I said, ‘Why are we here?’

  My father took hold of my arm firmly and led me through the door. ‘You’ll see when you get there. Don’t give me any trouble as,’ he pointed to a policeman standing in the entrance hall, ‘he’ll deal with you if you do.’

  He pushed me towards the large room the policeman was standing in front of and said, ‘It’s nearly time for your hearing.’

  I looked appealingly up at him. I begged, ‘Please don’t make me go. I promise to be good.’

  He shoved me forward again and I walked into the juvenile court with my head bowed and feeling an overwhelming urge to pee.

  Chapter 2

  24 January 1958

  I was led into a courtroom and made to stand in front of a purple-draped table, above which two fluorescent lights hung from a discoloured yellow ceiling. My foot tapped uncontrollably on the highly polished slats of the floor and my eyes flitted nervously round the room. There were policemen standing under every window and two especially burly ones guarding the entrance. I wondered why they thought such precautions were necessary when faced with a scrawny thirteen-year-old. What did they think I was going to do?

  Behind me and slightly to the right sat my father, his cold blue eyes staring unblinkingly through gold-rimmed glasses. He was in deep conversation with a woman sitting next to him. I noticed how often she nodded her head sympathetically then glanced in my direction with a distaste that wrinkled her thin mouth into a crooked line of red lipstick that appeared to be underlining her bulbous nose.

  ‘Everybody rise.’

  A man in a black pin-striped suit who had been sitting at a side table now stood up and looked around the room. Everyone stopped talking and rose to their feet.

  A small anteroom door swung open and three people came in – one woman and two men. They walked purposefully to the draped table and, with the briefest glance at the assembled onlookers, sat in the three seats behind the table, the woman in the middle.

  The men could have been twins they looked so alike. Both were wearing grey, pinstriped suits, white starch-collared shirts, military striped ties and black brogues. They both had slicked-back black hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. The woman was dressed extremely elegantly in a light-coloured tweed skirt and mohair sweater with a string of pearls round her neck. She had lovely twinkly grey eyes, and these calmed me a little. She seemed nice, I thought.

  ‘Case number 247 in respect of John Fenton. The charge is brought by his father, Dennis James Fenton, who states that his son is beyond parental control. You may all be seated.’

  ‘Mr Fenton,’ the nice woman said, ‘please come forward.’

  I heard a movement behind me and then my father was standing beside me. I turned to look at him but he never glanced in my direction. He was looking straight ahead at the nice woman with an expression of self-pity on his face.

  ‘Mr Fenton, we have read the charge that you have brought against your son and would appreciate a little more enlightenment as to why you think he is beyond your control.’ The nice woman smiled at my father. ‘Take your time – we are in no hurry.’

  My father coughed quietly to clear his throat. ‘Your Honour. His mother and I are at our wits’ end as to the boy’s behaviour. We’ve turned to you as a last resort.’ There was desperation in his voice. ‘Please help us.’

  I turned to see if my father was crying, as this was said with such anguish.

  ‘He kicks and hits his sisters without any reason. He comes in late from school and never lets us know where he has been. He is rude to his mother and grandmother and seems to get a perverse delight in using wicked and vile language. If I try to give him any corporal punishment he turns violent and tries to attack me.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Fenton?’ the woman asked sympathetically. ‘Would you like a short recess?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Honour. I’ll be fine now. It’s so distressing.’ Again, the handkerchief came out and my father blew his nose loudly. ‘If only you knew what we’ve been through. He’ll send us to an early grave.’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I was supposed to be the violent one in the house? I was amazed at his tirade of lies.

  ‘I am sure we can help you, Mr Fenton. Try not to distress yourself.’ The woman sounded even more compassionate. ‘I have dealt with situations like this before and I have always found a solution.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ My father’s voice was now under control. ‘We want him to be a normal boy – play football, go swimming, work hard at school and be a success when he grows up. Did I tell you he smokes? Well, he does, and I’ve been called up to his school about it, and worse than that, he steals money and cigarettes from his mother’s handbag.’

  I turned to look at him, but he wouldn’t catch my eye.

  The three magistrates were regarding my father with sympathy. He seemed to be having difficulty controlling his emotions and sniffed loudly behind a large white handkerchief. With an exaggerated wiping of his eyes he put the handkerchief away in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fenton. I know how hard it must have been for you and your wife to take this course of action and I will now do my very best to help you both.’ She smiled sweetly at my father. ‘Please return to your seat.’

  ‘Well, John, what have you got to say for yourself?’ The woman’s eyes were no longer twinkling; they had turned flinty grey. ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘Explain what?’ I thought. I didn’t know what to say. My dad had just told her a giant pack of lies. Why wasn’t Mum there to tell her that I only attacked him when he was hitting her and making her cry? Why wasn’t she there to tell this court woman that I bought my own cigarettes from the wages I got doing a milk boy’s job every Saturday and Sunday? Why wasn’t she there to tell her that I didn’t come home early from school because I knew my dad got out of bed at that time and he was always angry with me? Why wasn’t she there to tell her that most nights she climbed into my bed crying after yet another violent row with my father and how I cuddled her to make it better?

  ‘I am waiting for your explanation.’ The woman glared at me.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I tried to mask the trembling in my voice, ‘and anyway it’s got nothing to do with you.’ I was too ashamed to tell her the truth about my home life.

  As if one, the three people behind the table were gawping at me with incredulity. ‘It has nothing to do with me! I can’t believe what I have just heard.’ The woman virtually spat out the words. ‘I’ll show you what it has to do with me.’

  They huddled together in a hushed conversation for a few minutes then she addressed me again. ‘It is quite clear’, she began, ‘that you have a total lack of respect for anything and everyone. You seem to be hell-bent on self-destruction and because of this we have to protect you and society from what you, no doubt, are becoming.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that you be remanded in a secure young persons’ establishment for a period of two weeks while reports are obtained.’

  The three people behind the table stood up. Without another glance in my direction, they returned through the small door from which they had appeared.

  What was all that about? I didn’t have a clue what had just been decided. I turned around to go back to my father but found he was no longer beside me and was, in fact, walking towards the exit. I started to follow him but a strong hand on my arm halted my progress.

  ‘You’re with me, sonny Jim.’

 
; I looked up at a burly police officer.

  ‘Don’t even think of trying to get away,’ he said. ‘Just come along with me.’

  The officer led me out of the courtroom and down a corridor. His grip on my arm became tighter as he opened a glass-panelled door and led me through.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said firmly, ‘and no noise.’ These words were spoken so forcibly that they sounded like a threat. I quickly sat down and stared at the floor, utterly terrified. I had never had any dealings with the police before and this man was scaring the shit out of me.

  The police officer stationed himself in the corridor opposite the door and stood staring at me through the windows. I looked around the room. It was about twelve foot square with no windows. The walls were green and defaced in places by names scratched on them. The floor was covered in faded green linoleum that was cracking noticeably in one of the corners. The only furniture was an equally defaced wooden table and six black plastic chairs. I checked the chair I was sitting on and found it was black plastic as well.

  It seemed an interminably long time before the door was opened again. The officer asked if I needed the toilet but the nervous urge I’d had in the courtroom had passed, so I declined. It was shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon when they came to fetch me. I knew the time as I had heard a clock chime somewhere in the building. The two men that came were not as fearsome-looking as the one outside the door but they were equally as forceful. They led me by my arms out of the building and into a blue van with bars across the side and back windows.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked, at last plucking up the courage to speak.

  ‘St Nicholas House, Enfield,’ was the terse reply from the driver. That was all that was said during the thirty-minute journey out of London and into Middlesex. I was overcome with fear and confusion and battling within myself not to cry. Why was this happening? What had I done to deserve this? Who was going to look after Mum? I badly wanted my Mum to come and get me, tell these men it was all a mistake, give me a big hug and take me back home again.

  Chapter 3

  The van turned off the main highway and through a stone archway onto a long drive, which cut through some dense woods. After about five minutes of twisting and turning, a large Georgian manor house came into view. I was struck by how white it was and how big the windows were. I had never been in the country before and had certainly never seen such a magnificent building. If this was St Nicholas House, it didn’t look at all intimidating and I was looking forward to seeing the insides. My fear was dissipating and rapidly being replaced by excitement. I imagined that this must be how people felt when they went on holiday. I had never been on holiday and had always envied the rich children who went away to places like Southend and Margate that to me sounded exotic.

  The van pulled up in front of two large wooden doors and I was led in through one. The interior of the building was even more inspiring than the exterior. The huge entrance hall had a floor of grey marble flagstones, which seemed to reflect all of the winter sunlight shining through the large windows. Everywhere I looked there were huge double doors with ornate brass doorknobs, or white walls with beautiful carved cornices. A wide marble staircase with a well-polished banister dominated the hallway.

  The van driver knocked softly on one of the doors and opened it in the same motion. I was led into a large room whose grandeur was diminished by lots of modern office furniture. Several people were sitting behind desks and the clicking of typewriters reverberated. A suited man got up from his desk, came over to one of my escorts, and took the sheaf of papers he was holding out. His eyes briefly scanned the papers.

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said in a Geordie accent that sounded peculiar to me.

  ‘He’s all yours. See you later.’ My escorts let go of my arms and left without a backward glance. I heard the van engine start up again and the sound fading as it pulled away down the drive.

  ‘What size shoes do you wear?’

  I turned to look at the suited man, who was eyeing me questioningly.

  ‘Six, sir,’ I said timidly.

  The man went to a side cupboard and rummaged around for a few minutes. When he reappeared, his arms were piled high with items of clothing. He dropped them at my feet.

  ‘Pick them up and follow me.’

  With great difficulty, I scooped them up from the floor and hurried after the man who was now climbing the staircase.

  ‘Get a move on boy,’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  I staggered under the precariously balanced pile and hurried to catch him up.

  ‘In here.’ The man opened a door halfway along the upstairs corridor. ‘Take all your own clothes off and put them in that basket.’

  He gestured to a large wicker basket leaning against a side wall. The room was obviously meant for washing as there were two large sinks on the far wall and several on the floor. I had never seen washbasins on the floor before. As if the man had been reading my mind, he pointed to one of them.

  ‘Shower yourself and make sure you do your hair well. I will be checking for lice.’

  Self-consciously, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the basin. It took me a few nervous minutes to figure out how this new-fangled contraption worked but at last I did and the lukewarm water felt good as it pelted down on my shivering body. The soap the man handed to me smelled the same as the one my mother used for scrubbing the front doorstep at home. After about five minutes of heavy soaping and scrubbing I was handed a threadbare white towel. I rubbed myself dry and dressed myself in the clothes the man had given me.

  The clothes were far from being new but were definitely clean. They had a distinct odour of mothballs and I wrinkled my nose as I put them on. The vest and underpants were a greyish white and the shirt – which was too large – was blue and had a frayed collar. The brown corduroy short trousers were slightly tight but the matching tunic jacket fitted me well. To round everything off, I had grey ankle socks and a pair of well-worn-in brown sandals.

  After briefly inspecting my hair and scalp, the man pointed at the wicker basket I’d put my clothes in.

  ‘Bring that and follow me,’ he ordered as he walked away. Virtually scampering, I followed him as we retraced our route back to the entrance hall. Pointing at the floor outside the office door he said, ‘Leave the basket there and come with me.’

  This time the man opened one of the doors to the left of the staircase. I heard the voices of lots of young people coming from within and entered the room with trepidation.

  ‘One for you, Mr Jenkins,’ the man shouted across the noise.

  A silver-haired man came over. ‘What’s your name, lad?’ he boomed out.

  ‘John Fenton, sir,’ I replied quietly.

  ‘Right, Fenton, go and meet the others and try not to make too much noise.’

  There were about thirty boys in the room, their ages ranging from nine to sixteen years old. I was self-conscious about my appearance, but relieved to see that everyone was dressed in the same ill-fitting apparel as me. They paid me scant attention and just carried on with their various activities. Some were sitting talking, others were playing board games, and a few were standing by a table-tennis table watching two of the older boys having a game.

  ‘Where are you from?’ I turned to see where the voice had come from. A boy of about the same age as me was standing beside me. ‘I’m from Barnet.’

  ‘I’m from Ealing,’ I replied. ‘Where’s Barnet? I’ve never heard of it.’

  The boy looked shocked at my ignorance. ‘Everyone’s heard of Barnet. Are you fucking stupid?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘If you’re so fucking clever,’ I emphasised the word fucking, ‘tell me where Ealing is.’

  The boy laughed loudly. ‘That’s fucked me.’ He looked at me with a friendly expression. ‘My name’s Bernard. What’s yours?’

  I smiled back. ‘John, John Fenton. What’s your last name?’

  ‘Connors.’ He hes
itated for a moment. ‘What are you in here for?’

  ‘I don’t know. My dad said he was taking me out for the day and I ended up in Juvenile Court. Next minute I was told I had to come here for reports. I haven’t a clue what they were talking about or what happened.’ I felt tears springing to my eyes and turned away so the boy wouldn’t see them and think me soft.

  ‘You’re lucky. They’re just going to do probation reports. You’ll be going home the next time you go to court.’ Bernard spoke with such assurance that I immediately felt better. Then he added, ‘I’ve had probation already – this time I’m going down.’

  ‘Going down where?’ I was in awe of the way Bernard spoke. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Played truant. Nothing big, just truant.’ He laughed again. ‘The wankers were always round my house. My old lady would take me into school and I would leg it out the back gate. I hated the fucking place.’

  ‘So what happens to you now?’ My admiration for him was growing by the minute.

  ‘I reckon I’ll get three years’ approved school,’ he told me. ‘Quite likely I’ll go to St Vincent’s. I’m a Catholic. Yer, I’ll get Vincent’s.’

  ‘Let’s go and sit down.’ Bernard started towards an empty table. ‘I’ll put you wise as to what goes on here.’

  I listened intently as my new friend outlined the daily procedure at St Nicholas’s. The routine was simple. Out of bed at 6.30 am. Wash and shower and then tidy the dormitory. Get dressed and go down for breakfast at 7.30 am. Between 8.30 and 10 am scrub and clean the interior of the house. After the morning house inspection it was off to help the gardener with weeding and cutting the lawns. At 1 pm lunch and at 1.30 until 2 pm recreation. Between 2 and 4 pm it was back to helping the gardener. All boys were required to bathe after work and to be inspected for cleanliness. Tea was at 5.30 pm and there was further recreation between 6 and 7.30 pm. We would then be given a watery cup of cocoa and a slice of bread and jam. Into bed by 8 pm and lights out at 9 pm.